by James Maxey
“Just get the horse ready and stay alert,” said Bitterwood. Without looking back, he leapt the ditch by the road and pushed through the brush into the woods. He moved swiftly and silently through the shade until he emerged at the edge of his cornfield. He crept cautiously through the rows crouching when he caught sight of the house.
Everything was silent, which was the worst thing he could possibly hear. With the wind coming from the west, the dogs should have caught scent of him by now and come out barking to greet him.
He emerged from the corn, alert to any movement. His heart sank when he saw the dogs. Both Nut and Catfish were dead, hacked crudely with something sharp and heavy, most likely a battle-axe. He moved closer, looking for footprints. Unfortunately, the rains of the previous week had given way to several days of heat that had left the hard packed ground around his cabin too firm for even the heavy foot of an earth-dragon to leave marks. He suspected that it must have been an earth-dragon and not a tatterwing that killed the dogs. The battle-axe was a favored weapon of earth-dragons. Tatterwings would have used spears.
On the other hand, earth-dragons weren’t particularly picky about what meat they ate. They would hardly leave behind two well-muscled hounds, unless they had a bigger feast in mind.
Bitterwood’s heart was heavy as he moved to the pen next to the barn. Poocher was gone. There was blood everywhere, and evidence of where the hog’s body had been dragged from the pen. Here, in the muck, the claw prints of earth-dragons were abundant. At least three of them. To remove the carcass, they’d used a cart drawn by an ox-dog from the looks of it. Curious. To attack in plain daylight was one thing. Moving the carcass via cart meant they had to follow the road, not toward town, obviously, but upriver two miles to the next bridge, which was guarded by rangers. Of course, the river wasn’t as swollen as it had been even a week ago. There were two or three places where the river might be forded. Or perhaps the earth-dragons were even hungrier than he thought and gambling that they could overpower the rangers at the bridge.
Bitterwood frowned at the possibility that the earth-dragons might already be dead, shot down by the rangers. Losing Poocher… this was going to kill Zeeky. She’d endured a great deal of tragedy over the last year, and through it all the pig had been by her side, a faithful companion, more loyal to her than any dog. If Poocher’s killers died at the guns of the rangers it would be a very hollow justice.
He moved to the barn door and swung it open. Skitter was still inside, sleeping soundly. The beast had been created by the Goddess to dwell in caves. While it obediently pulled a plow in daylight, it preferred to sleep during the day. Bitterwood wasn’t surprised the earth-dragons had steered clear of the barn. Skitter gave off an odor that made any animals nervous. Not that humans particularly liked the smell either.
Assured that his transportation was safe, Bitterwood returned to the cabin to find his bow. He stopped short when he saw Jeremiah on the horse in the yard, looking pale as he stared at Bitterwood.
“I told you to stay… where’s Zeeky?” Bitterwood asked.
“I told her were weren’t supposed to come,” said Jeremiah, weakly.
Bitterwood looked at the door of the cabin, which stood open. Zeeky emerged from the darkness inside, her cheeks wet with tears. In one hand, she carried his bow and in the other, his quiver.
“You were right,” she said, her voice trembling. “You said… you said that the dragons would… and Poocher. He’s… and the dogs… those poor dogs. I never thought… I never thought they’d hurt the dogs.”
“They’ll never hurt anything else,” said Bitterwood, taking the bow. “The two of you go to the widow’s house. Make sure she’s okay. If any rangers come around, tell them what you know.”
“Where are you going?” asked Jeremiah.
“You know where he’s going,” said Zeeky.
THE VILLAGE OF MULTON was only ten miles from Dragon Forge. Once it had housed two hundred humans working the fertile rolling hills but the fields now lay fallow. Every last man, woman, and child of the village had been slaughtered by earth-dragons in the aftermath of the first battle of Dragon Forge. When the dragon armies had been repulsed a second time by the rebels, a regiment of earth-dragons had set up camp among the abandoned structures. They remained there still, waiting for some winged dragon to come along and tell them what to do. Until then, they fed themselves by slaughtering every living thing within a few miles of the village, and occasionally their own brethren. Idle earth-dragons not under the command of a winged dragon would often argue among themselves, and these arguments were often settled by blows from a battle-axe, with the dragon walking away from such an encounter being deemed the winner of the debate, and the loser deemed dinner. And while earth-dragons weren’t known for their mastery of fine culinary arts, they did possess a certain raw talent for fermentation and distillation. The seed corn and barley found in barns had been turned into whiskey and beer, the cabbages planted the previous season by humans had been turned into goom, and any fruit or wild berry in the area was well on its way to being wine.
Where there was booze there were buyers. Bitterwood watched the village from the upper branches of a tree, peeking through the leaves. His guts churned with bile as he watched a string of humans walk into the village then out again. He recognized some of the men from that morning’s market. Going in, they carried chickens, wheelbarrows of cabbage and potatoes, loads of dried fish, and full purses. Coming out, they carried jugs and carted barrels. The fact that men would do willing commerce with creatures who had slaughtered their brothers disgusted Bitterwood beyond all words. Why hadn’t Burke put an end to this trade?
His hatred built as he watched the life of Multon lazily unfold as the long summer evening wore on. Skitter was hidden in a nearby pond with only his nostrils peeking above the water. With a whistle, the beast would come to him, racing across the landscape in a copper colored blur. As tempting as it was to charge his death-wyrm right through the center of town and place arrows into the eye-sockets of any dragon who turned to see what the commotion about, Bitterwood knew he should wait for nightfall. His burning hatred of dragons had always been tempered by a cold, methodical approach to his vengeance. He’d killed more dragons than he could count, though he supposed the number must be in the thousands. As much as he found satisfaction in seeing fear in a dragon’s eyes, most of these dead dragons had never even seen him before they died. He owed his survival through long years of bloodshed to stealth, cunning, and patience.
Not that his patience was being rewarded this afternoon. He’d spotted several carts drawn by ox-dogs, though none carried Poocher’s carcass. He hadn’t been able to track the cart once it reached the road, since there were too many wheel imprints to untangle due to it being a market day. He’d ridden upriver without finding clear evidence of where the dragons might have crossed, and found the bridge still guarded with no sign that the rangers there had seen action. It was vaguely plausible that he’d reached Multon before the earth-dragons thanks to Skitter’s speed. Still, while ox-dogs weren’t fast, they should have made it to Multon by now.
If they’d arrived before him, butchering a hog the size of Poocher would have been a time-consuming affair, likely carried out in open air. He hadn’t seen any signs of a pig being butchered, but he had spotted a limping tatterwing with a bandaged hind-talon, moving through the streets with two fellow tatterwings, all three carrying jugs of whisky. On a gut level, Bitterwood felt certain these were the chicken thieves. There were other tatterwings moving about the town, but he didn’t see any others with bandaged wounds.
Even though the tatterwings hadn’t killed Poocher, he imagined they might know which of the earth-dragons had done the deed. To Bitterwood, the sequence of events was obvious. They’d returned to the village with their stolen chickens and mentioned to some earth-dragon that the bounty had come from a farm that housed the biggest hog they’d ever laid eyes on. After that, the earth-dragons likely couldn’t have resisted
the temptation. Which meant that none of this would have happened if he’d followed his impulse and tracked down the chicken thieves the first night. Zeeky had to be thinking the same thing. She might even feel responsible for Poocher’s death. The thought of the sweet child bearing such a burden felt like a hand closing around his heart.
At last, the night arrived. In the dark, he guided Skitter behind a large barn near the edge of town and rode the beast onto the roof, since the long-wyrm could climb a vertical surface as easily as it moved over flat ground. No animals within the barn cried in alarm at Skitter’s scent. Any horses or cows would have been eaten by the dragons long ago, and ox-dogs weren’t traditionally housed in barns.
Not far away was the tavern at the center of town, once run by humans, now a central location for the dragons to sell their wares. The place was bustling with both dragons and men, and the grunting chants that passed for earth-dragon songs. He heard the laughter of human women though he hadn’t seen any women come or go from the town. Probably whores, living permanently at the tavern.
Tomorrow, they’d need to find a new home. The place was well lit with lanterns, flames dancing within chimney glass above tin reservoirs filled with oil. The windows of the tavern were wide open to let in the cool night breeze. The task before him was no challenge. He’d downed dragons with an arrow to the eye in worse light and at twice the distance.
There was no reaction at all to his first arrows, which punctured the oil reservoirs of four of the lanterns, three near the window, and one on the far side of the room which he targeted just because it was the only one that was even slightly difficult. He waited a few seconds and heard a few of the chanting voices die off. Murmurs of confusion spread across the room as oil streamed down from the punctured lanterns. Satisfied the oil had enough time to drain, he followed up with arrows that shattered the chimneys. Women screamed, startled by the crash and rain of glass. The singing stopped entirely.
He let four more arrows fly. This time he targeted the handles and hooks from which the lanterns dangled. The three nearest the windows fell and instantly flames erupted through the room. The screams of the women were drowned out by the shrieks of earth-dragons realizing they were on fire. The last flame on the far side of the room continued to dance around its wick. He’d missed! Not that he now needed that lantern to help spread panic and flame, but, just to feel the job was done right, he released a fifth arrow, smiling as the flame dropped down into the pool of oil beneath it.
Every window and crack in the wall of the saloon now glowed with bright light. The flames from the oil found plentiful fuel in the ancient furniture, and overturned jugs of whiskey erupted in bright blue gouts of light and heat.
Everyone inside the tavern made a concerted effort to be outside the tavern all at once. There were shouts and curses and shrieks, as earth-dragons trampled over the men and women in their paths. Only a single earth-dragon stayed behind, beating at the flames with a thick rug. Bitterwood put an arrow through his heart. It wouldn’t do to have the flames extinguished too quickly.
Bitterwood narrowed his eyes as he watched the door. The chaos of shapes spilling out into the street was half obscured with trailing smoke, and it was hard to tell in the flickering light which of the several tatterwings among the crowd were the ones he was looking for.
Then, he spotted one limping, and made out the bandaged talon as it hurried toward the barn where Bitterwood hid. He’d seen them come and go from the barn a few times, and guessed they likely lived here. With the noise and panic at the saloon, he’d have time to question these tatterwings without interference no matter how loud they screamed.
As he waited for the tatterwings to reach him, he heard one of the larger earth-dragons barking out orders. Suddenly a bucket brigade formed. Earth-dragons were clumsy and dim-witted as a rule, but once guided in a task by a strong leader their boundless strength and stamina could turn them into a formidable muscle powered machine. So far, he didn’t know if anyone had even seen his arrows. The dragons couldn’t know if this was an attack or some strange accident that had caused the lanterns to shatter spontaneously. While he saw advantages in allowing the dragons to continue their work in ignorance, there was something missing. There was panic and commotion, yes, but not terror. The dragons were afraid of losing the tavern, not of losing their lives.
He rose, confident his dark cloak concealed him from eyes dazzled by flames, and unleashed arrow after arrow. The bucket brigade dragons had been so thoughtful in lining up for him, one by one, like a row of bottles upon a fence one might use for target practice.
He didn’t go for instant kills. An arrow through the gut would bring days of agony before death. An arrow in the throat would allow for several horrific moments of awareness as a dragon died, drowning in his own blood. And an arrow in the shoulder or thigh would bring pain, but leave the dragon conscious and aware and able to shout the one word he wanted to hear.
Five of the bucket brigade dragons fell. One still standing tore out the arrow jutting from his shoulder and stared at it, uncomprehending for long seconds before he cried, “Bitterwood!”
Once the word was spoken, it spread faster than the fire. “Bitterwood! Bitterwood!” The remnants of the bucket brigade fled for the cover of any house or shed they could find and in seconds the streets were cleared.
“Bitterwood?” said the limping dragon below as he reached the barn door. He stood while the door was opened by one of his companions. “Bitterwood’s dead! He died when he assassinated Shandrazel. He struck the king with a poisoned dagger, but the king with his dying strength gutted the man.”
“How do you gut a ghost?” one of his companions asked as he closed the door, sounding panicked. “Bitterwood’s an evil spirit! The Ghost Who Kills, not a flesh and blood man!”
“Don’t be a superstitious fool,” the other companion grumbled. “Humans might believe in spirits, but we’re above such things. The king didn’t kill Bitterwood because there never was a Bitterwood. He’s a myth, a legend!”
“A myth is even harder to gut than a ghost,” the fearful dragon said.
“It’s merely idiot earth-dragons panicking,” said the cool-headed companion. “Someone knocked over a lantern and now everyone’s acting like it’s the end of the world.”
Apparently, they hadn’t seen any of his arrows, which made sense, since they’d been running away from the dragons he’d targeted.
“What’s that smell?” said the tatterwing with the bandaged talon. Bitterwood suspected they’d caught Skitter’s unique aroma.
“I smell it too,” said the tatterwing who believed in ghosts. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever smelled before. It’s… unnatural. Evil.”
The rational tatterwing sighed. “It’s plainly something in the smoke. Goom smells evil enough when you drink it. I can only imagine how it must reek when it burns.”
By now, Bitterwood had silently climbed down into the hayloft and crouched above the three dragons. The barn was darker than the surrounding night, lit only by the distant flames, the light flickering through the cracks in the barn and casting sinister shadows.
“Let’s leave,” said the superstitious companion.
“And go where?” asked the rational one.
“Richmond,” said the wounded tatterwing. “I’ve heard rumors that most of the humans there have been killed and even a tatterwing can find easy pickings in the stuff they’ve left behind. But, I’ll never walk that far. We’ll need to steal an ox-dog and a cart.”
“An excellent suggestion,” said the rational tatterwing. “Ever since the rangers killed Nizel for cheating on the deal, I’ve been feeling that our days here are numbered.”
“Those bastards,” the wounded one growled. “We were idiots to ever trust humans. Though, you know, Nizel had it coming.”
“True,” said rational.
“True,” said superstitious.
“True,” said Bitterwood, in the darkness above them.
All three
of the dragons grew quiet. In unison, slowly, slowly, they lifted their eyes toward him. From the unfixed qualities of their gazes, he could tell they couldn’t see him. With his dark cloak, hunched over in the shadows, he blended into the bales of hay scattered around the loft.
“Who… who’s there?” asked rational, swallowing hard.
“Truth,” said Bitterwood.
Now their eyes fixed on him as he rose to stand on the edge of the loft, looking down into their fearful faces.
“Truth is what you fear most, after all,” said Bitterwood, his voice gravelly and cold. “None of you became tatterwings because of your honest natures. You’re thieves and traitors, the shame of your race, condemned by your brethren to fates worse than death. They’ve stolen the sky from you. Your fate at my hands will seem like mercy.”
The rational one broke first, spinning around. But instead of fleeing the barn he ran into a stall and grabbed a spear leaning against the wall. Bitterwood recognized the spear as the kind used by the aerial guard. Rational likely had some training.
“I don’t fear you, human!” the tatterwing snarled.
Bitterwood could have dropped him easily with his bow. Instead he leapt from the hayloft, knife in hand, rolling across the floor as he landed. He sprung at the tatterwing, deftly sliding beneath the sharp point as the dragon thrust the spear. He rose, his face inches from the dragon’s toothy jaws, but before the creature could even think of biting him, he slipped his knife into the dragon’s gut up to the hilt, then twisted. The dragon fell, dropping his spear. Bitterwood spun, catching the spear as it fell, throwing it with a fluid motion at the superstitious dragon who fled toward the door. The spear pierced the sky-dragon’s spine and a childlike shriek tore from the creature’s throat as he fell against the barn door, closing it.
The final dragon, the wounded one, stood stock still in the center of the barn, his golden eyes glinting in the gloom.
“Is this… is this… is this because of the widow?” he asked.
